


To the Waters and the Wilds

by Vampiric_Charms



Series: Burns Most of All [20]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little practical joke has a rather different outcome than Melkor was expecting.  Perhaps because this particular joke involved stealing goods from Mairon’s forge and breaking a few of his belongings in the process - even if Mairon himself was not the intended target of Melkor's wiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Waters and the Wilds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vodyanoj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodyanoj/gifts).



> This was written as a request for **vodyanoj** , who asked about what kinds of pranks Melkor would play after they were mentioned briefly in another story. So here you are, lovely! This turned out a little fluffier than I intended? And maybe fluffier than I thought these two could be. Set, I’m thinking, somewhere during the early Utumno period.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Mairon, Mairon, come with me!”

He did not even have a chance to react to the call before he was tugged nearly off his feet, out of the corridor and toward a narrow flight of stairs. The thin bone china cup rattled off its saucer, jerked so inelegantly in his grip, and both tumbled to the floor. They shattered there, his tea spilling across the floor into a large puddle to stain the dark cobbles. That was the last from the set of his favorite pattern - all others broken in _very_ similar ways - and he gasped in angered dismay at the mess even as he was dragged away. 

After a quick moment to regain his changing surroundings, Mairon swiveled away and jerked his arm from Melkor’s grasp just as the Vala shoved open a wooden and steel door at the top landing of the stairs leading to a high rampart overlooking the training grounds below. He snagged Mairon’s wrist again when the Maia hesitated on the threshold at the promise of coming cold and pulled him fully outside.

Wind buffeted around them, nearly blowing Mairon’s hair out of its restraining clips, and he scowled as he tugged his arm away again to run hands over his head in a vain attempt to keep it all in place. The thin cotton shawl gracing his shoulders did little to protect him from the snowy chill, and he shivered under it, growing agitated. If he had known his day would include a trip to the high towers to stand exposed to the bitter elements, he would have at least brought his double-lined cloak. Possibly even the fur and velvet one. It was _freezing_.

“That was rude,” he muttered with a tiny scowl pulling his lips. He crossed his arms in a useless attempt to keep some heat closer to his body. “Next time simply ask me to follow you.”

Melkor merely grabbed his wrist once more to guide him to the railing. There was excitement on his face - an excitement that made Mairon wary.

“Watch,” he said hastily, pointing down below them.

Mairon peered downward, lowering his eyes more than his head. Orcs were swarming into the courtyard far, far below. Armor glinted in the murky sunlight, even mostly hidden as it was by heavy clouds, and packs of them were breaking apart to begin their afternoon training sessions. Gothmog was across the yard, barking commands that echoed up to them and distorted across the stone walls. It appeared they were to practice unarmed combat, as no weapons had been passed between them. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. 

“What, exactly, am I supposed to be watching?”

Melkor smiled wickedly, his lips curling upward and his eyes alighting. “A bit of fun,” he purred, bracing his hands on the stone bannister and leaning so far forward his torso was fully over the rail.

The gales picked up their furious howl with a vengeance and Mairon clutched at his shawl. His eyes darted up to Melkor’s face for a moment before falling back down to the courtyard, now roucous with noise of battle as the orcs began their practice rounds. “Have you forced me to become party to another of your pranks, my lord?” he asked dryly, not at all amused. His teeth were starting to chatter.

“You have been so unhappy lately, Mairon,” Melkor murmured, voice just heard as it strung by on that horribly cold wind. “I’ve missed the sound of your laughter. So humor me, love, if only for a moment. Watch.”

“I have been _unhappy_ ,” Mairon snapped, unable to help himself as he repeated that stupid word, “because you have refused to sit down long enough to look over the regiment and fortification plans I recently dedicated weeks planning for you. I would appreciate, next time, being made made aware if my time will be wasted on such activities and best spent elsewhere.”

“What kind of _elsewhere_?” the Vala leered with a suggestive glance, raising his eyebrows as an indecorous grin broke across his face. “Because I can think of many other ways to better spend your time.”

“I was thinking more of my forge and fire,” Mairon said without the barest hint of a blush.

Melkor laughed, the sound rebounding around them. “Oh, come now!” It almost looked as though he was going to say more but he just smiled again and unclipped his cloak, easily removing it from his shoulders and dropping it over Mairon’s own. His shivering, which had reached an uncomfortable extreme in the icy chill, suddenly lessened, and he grasped at the lush fur-trimmed edges to pull the heavy thing closer about his neck. Their eyes met. “Better?”

A mildly distraught cry from below caught their attention again and they both looked downward. A short orc was twisting in circles, trying to reach an arm around his back to pat at it, or scratch it, or some other odd thing. Others nearby were stopping their practice to watch, starting to guffaw, and he switched arms to reach the other side, only to start pawing at his shoulders and forearms instead.

Suddenly several others took up the odd little itching dance, and then several more. Laughing ceased and a small panic ensued.

“What did you do?” Mairon asked slowly, finally coming closer to the balustrade to watch the unfolding spectacle. Gothmog was yelling out orders, attempting to get his troops back under control but to no avail. Chaos was mounting quite quickly.

“I switched their talcum powder for sodium borate,” he replied simply.

“You - you did what?” Mairon looked up at him, startled. “But the sodium borate is mine, I use it for tempering metals in the forge. I’m currently using it to create the armor for _your own armies_! How much did you take!”

“All of it,” Melkor waved off dismissively. “It is so very renewable, I will have your stocks refilled by tomorrow’s end.” Mairon gaped at him, no longer paying any attention to the ridiculous show below. His indignant sounds of protest went ignored as Melkor continued. “Have you ever noticed how our orcs react to the raw mineral itself? _I_ certainly have. They break out in a rash - a tremendously itchy one that drives them quite mad.”

“So you’ve tricked them into rubbing this raw material all over their chaffing parts instead of the talc they normally use? How very indulgent of you.” Mairon scowled again, finally looking back down at the poor orcs, who were now all spinning around in a frenzy. “Why must you take my things without asking? Or break them,” he added under his breath, thinking of the poor teacup shattered on the floor.

“I do no such thing. Besides - oh, oh, look!”

One of the orcs, out of sheer desperation, had thrown a punch at his closest fellow. Melkor howled with laughter and clapped his hands together once in absolute delight with how his plan had come to fruition. The orc who had been attacked quickly turned and smacked his friend in retaliation, who hit _him_ again, and then three more joined into the scuffle - one, perhaps, in an attempt to break it apart - until what had begun as a confused outbreak of itching and scratching turned into an outright brawl between the hundreds. Gothmog slunk away back into the barracks, either for assistance or simply to leave the utter confusion of the scene before it engulfed him as well.

A thin smile finally cracked across Mairon’s face. It was more from Melkor’s reaction to the outcome than to the chaos below, and he watched the Vala for a passing moment as he whooped and cheered through the progression of the fight. This, if he were honest - _this_ was amusing, and his heart felt lightened for a brief few seconds. Suddenly Melkor looked up as though feeling that studying gaze upon him and their eyes locked together.

“ _There_ you are,” Melkor murmured so softly Mairon nearly did not hear him over the ever-continuous wind.

But it was the tone more than the content of his words that made Mairon’s heart jump in his chest, and he looked away abruptly, hand grasping again at the heavy cloak where it clasped at his throat to stave off the dense chill. “I have not gone anywhere,” he said derisively.

“No,” Melkor agreed, turning back to watch the orcs as they continued to scuffle and tumble about in the snow-drifted courtyard. “But it has been so long since I have seen you smile,” he continued with another smaller one of his own, “and I have missed seeing them grace your lovely face. It is reassuring to know you have not lost yourself completely to this endless war.” 

Mairon scoffed, taken somewhat aback by the statement and needing a moment to gather his words. The lighthearted feeling he had been clutched by just moments ago vanished. “I do all this for you, my lord.”

“So you do.” 

Melkor looked at him again, his eyes clear and undistracted. There was something in that gaze that struck Mairon to his core, sinking into his stomach and settling there. It was a spark he had seen a handful of times, late at night and only ever in the comfort of intimacy, in darkness broken by firelight in the hearth. _Love_ would be too kind a term, and not one he found an apt description - perhaps out of fear to name it so. But passion, maybe, stirred by a driving devotion they both felt - yes, surely that was getting closer, if not quite there. Even still, this was not an expression he saw turned on him in daylight hours, never outside of the privacy of Melkor’s own chambers.

Mairon did not look away this time as the energy around them changed and continuing to shift in a way he had grown so used to. He was not afraid, but rather really quite thrilled by the simplicity of the idea presented. Melkor had wanted to see him smile - had wanted to cheer his soured mood (which, Mairon would admit, had been terrible the last several days). An odd way of going about the process, but the very thought was an extraordinary one, even at the expense of the orcs suffering for it below.

He clutched at the cloak again, feeling the soft fur lining under his exposed fingers. Mairon opened his mouth, emboldened by Melkor’s glance upon him and ready to ask why the Vala cared so much about his wellbeing.

“Oh, look, Gothmog has returned,” Melkor said, his attention turned once more to the courtyard. Whether this was feigned as a chance to avoid the subject before it could be broached or in genuine interest, Mairon was unsure, though let the observation pass unmentioned. 

“Oh, _ho_ , he has a vat of oil! Smart creature, rub them off with it to remove the powder, it will work more efficiently than water. He sure caught on quickly, hasn’t he.”

“Perhaps because you pulled a similar trick on him less than a month ago,” Mairon pointed out, unable to hold back a chuckle this time as he rolled his eyes. 

The wind picked up again quite suddenly, ricocheting off the walls and surrounding them in a swirl of snow and sleet. Mairon bowed his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the cold, turning his face away even as his hair was pulled fully from the clips holding it back. The gale was far too strong and tugged forcefully at the cloak, whipping it around to expose his body underneath. He cowered in on himself, freezing to the bone once more. Certainly he knew he would not _die_ from the exposure, but the bitter cold cut right through him in painful quavers.

“I am returning to my room,” he said around clattering teeth, moving as he spoke to take a shaky step to the door. The conversation from before was pushed far from his mind, heat all he cared about in that moment. “I need a fire, since you have already seen to the ruin of my tea and favorite cup. Enjoy watching the rest of this unfold.” He nodded toward the railing and courtyard beyond, eager now to find warmth once more.

“Mairon, wait.”

He paused at the soft sound of his name, hand on the latch and ready to pull it open for the sanctuary of warmth waiting just beyond, and turned again to raise his chin defiantly. “If you are about to request your cloak back, no, you cannot have it. I will return it to you later after the threat of my impending death by frostbite has fully passed.”

He’d done so well to keep color from staining his face this whole time, but the smirk that came over Melkor’s face at those words brought a flush across the tops of his ears hopefully hidden by the now-tangled mess of his hair. Still, though, he did not lower his chin and kept his gaze coolly in line with the Vala’s. 

It was the truth, after all. This cloak was heavier than several of his blankets, and once he lit a fire in his chambers it would go a long way to getting his body’s temperature back where it should be. This, along with all of those previously considered blankets and another cup of some hot liquid. It would be nice if he could just climb into the fireplace altogether. Which, truly, he might do - with the cloak still about his shoulders, as repayment. Melkor would get the charred remains of it back, and who would be laughing then?

But Mairon said none of this, even if he allowed the expression on his face to convey it all.

“If it is still warmth you seek, come here.” Melkor opened his arm in a conciliatory gesture, and Mairon frowned at him, unmoved. “You really should see this,” he continued with another wolfish grin, jerking his head to the side even if he did not break their gaze. “One of the hundreds below tipped the vat to spill it all over the dirty arena, and Gothmog is now attempting to roll them around in the oil instead, one by one. He is beside himself trying to regain control.”

Mairon’s eyes flicked to the courtyard he could no longer see, as he was too far back and it had become fully blocked by the railing. Tempting, tempting. He glanced up again. Melkor’s arm was still raised, his hand facing upward as though beckoning for him to take it.

He took a hesitant step forward, almost immediately regretting the loss of the potential fire he had been so close to building inside, and Melkor’s arm slid quickly around his shoulders to pull him closer until Mairon was standing before him, back pressed to his broad chest. He sighed, sensing his defeat at hand, and looked below. As promised, the orcs were rolling about like crazed farm animals in mud slicked with oil. Many of them had discarded pieces of armor to reveal greyed skin covered in a growing rash, which they pawed at feverishly, grabbing handfuls of that dirty, oily mixture to soothe away the itch. Mairon smiled in amusement despite himself.

Melkor wrapped his arm around the front of Mairon’s shoulders, clasping the other atop it so that his smaller frame was fully enveloped and protected from the wind. He leaned forward to gently press his cheek to Mairon’s temple. “Worth a watch, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I did not think so far ahead to realize the weather would affect you this adversely quite as quickly as it did. I apologize.”

“Consider it next time,” Mairon snapped, though the ire had mostly faded from his posture and his voice. He settled back into the tightening embrace of those warm arms and huffed in annoyance, now more for show than anything. “Unless you _intend_ for the fire of my very soul to extinguish in the snow as another of your foul pranks.”

“I intend no such thing,” Melkor replied, almost hurt. “I will stoke the fire in your bedroom myself when we return inside. Will that sate your continued need to eviscerate me with your vicious words, or must you push on with your attack?”

Mairon hummed his response, neither a positive or negative to the posed question. He tilted his head slightly, pushing his temple more firmly against Melkor’s cheek. He was still too cold to move his hands out from under the cloak to touch him, so that little movement would have to do. “Do you promise to have the borate stores replenished by tomorrow, as you said?”

“I did not _promise_ ,” Melkor began to grouse, and Mairon immediately attempted to pull out of his arms in annoyance. The Vala quickly tugged him back. “Yes, yes, I promise. You are so very difficult sometimes, do you realize that?”

“Only when you force my hand. It is not as though you make things any easier yourself.”

Mairon settled back against him again, having received the response he wished for and once more seeking the warmth of his body, and Melkor turned his head to glance down in confusion at Mairon’s calm face. The Maia looked up so their eyes met, unabashed. Melkor simply laughed, catching on quickly. 

“Was that _impertinence_ , coming from that pretty mouth of yours?” he asked, the question too amused to be weighted with anything.

Another crying howl came from the courtyard to catch their attention. The orcs were muddied beyond recognition now, covered in oil and dirt, and it appeared some of them had finally stopped scratching. Gothmog was hurriedly attending to the few still itching. Mairon smiled.

“Of course not, my lord,” he demurred quietly. He glanced up again, grinning so his eyes sparkled. “Though next time, perhaps let me know when you are about to play a prank such as this. I can give you something even more potent.”

“My, aren’t you devious,” Melkor murmured, lowering his head to press against Mairon’s messy hair. It was more than just a simple touch, and energy spilled from it to spool and wrap around them both.

“By the way,” Mairon added slyly, allowing himself to be pulled closer and reveling in it just as much as the Vala. He was no longer nearly as cold as he had been before, even if he would never admit to such a thing. “That teacup you broke -”

“ _I_ broke? _You_ are the one who dropped it.” 

Mairon ignored the disgruntled tone, his grin widening instead as Melkor kissed the side of his neck. Heat flowed from the spot. “Mm, it was the last one of my dearest set. I would appreciate you acquiring me another.”

“Another little cup?” Melkor grumbled against his skin. “Fine, you arrogant creature, I will find you another silly teacup.”

“No, another full service with the same pattern. Or at least the materials for me to create it myself.” He canted his head to the side, exposing more of his skin to both the wind and to Melkor’s greedy lips. The Vala took full advantage, the orcs below and their lessening scuffle quite forgotten. “Might we return indoors now? It is still snowing and I do long for my fire.”

“You are impossible sometimes, Mairon.”

“As are you, my lord.”


End file.
